


performance

by flirtygaybrit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Public Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: Geralt supposed it could have been worse. Jaskier could have been lying nude on his bedroll instead, pleasuring himself unabashedly under the stars, half his body painted with the warm, dying firelight and the rest cast in alluring shadow.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 89
Kudos: 2174
Collections: Best Geralt





	performance

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely nobody can stop me from watching every existing video compilation of Henry Cavill saying 'Jaskier'.

The dark forest that bordered the Buina river was teeming with activity, but really only came to life at night. The wood was full of the sound of twigs cracking underfoot and underhoof, of conspicuously rustling undergrowth, of pine needles that snapped under mysterious circumstances in the tangle of branches overhead and plunged to the forest floor; unseen mouths chattered and chittered in the dark, and eyes gleamed occasionally in the flickering firelight that still illuminated the clearing in which it sat as curious creatures decided they would prefer not to tangle with fire and the threats that usually accompanied it. 

The northernmost end of the Kaedweni forest was no stranger to strange nighttime travelers, and now it had something monstrous in it, something dangerous: a witcher, of course, for this was the forest that Geralt was temporarily occupying, but this particular thicket of trees had found itself occupied by something perhaps more beastly than a witcher—something rarer, too slippery to find himself caught in any man-made trap, and unfortunately too clever to be killed by even the best of hunters.

This terrible presence was the great poet Jaskier, and it was only Jaskier that Geralt could hear now, even over the sprills and the squirrels and the fire burning low in the shallow pit near his feet; buried modestly beneath a worn woollen blanket and a quilted monstrosity of garish colours, it was more than obvious to someone as perceptive as Geralt that Jaskier was masturbating. 

Again. 

Not again as in again _tonight_ , but again as in again on the road, at least eight days from any sort of notable civilization and with the constant threat of bandits or soldiers or wolves or the worse sort of Squirrel at night. Geralt had refrained from questioning his habit of relieving the stress of travel so boldly in the woods over the course of their many adventures. It didn’t take a keen eye to see that Jaskier was as virile and insatiable in that regard as any human man could be, and gods knew that it would knock him out for a few hours and leave him in a pleasant mood come morning, but Geralt could think of very few things that would arouse him so thoroughly that he would need to relieve himself in the company of other (non-participating) parties, and therefore could not understand, even if he wished to, what drove this particular desire.

So he didn’t ask.

But what was worse than the depravity of ejaculating at various campsites dotting the Kaedwen countryside, worse than having to seek out some small branch of the Buina to rinse clothing the day after or having to listen to Jaskier’s chipper morning greetings after a good night’s sleep, was that Jaskier often masturbated with such exuberance that Geralt found himself unable to focus on anything except his breathy exclamations and barely-muted sounds of pleasure. They were unnatural and even more unnecessary in this peaceful place, and would have been inconvenient even if Geralt hadn’t been trying desperately to fall asleep after a particularly long day of travel, a feat which he was certain now he would not be able to do until dawn.

Geralt grunted and tried to find a more comfortable position. He was already on his side, so he rolled onto his stomach and closed his eyes again and tried to fill his lungs with the familiar scent of the earth and its many inhabitants. He tried to listen for something, _anything_ , a passing deer half a mile away or an owl’s hushed flight overhead or even a mouse creeping through the underbrush, but all that filled his ears was the sound of the fire chewing away at the last charred bits of wood, the gentle pop of glowing embers, and the frantic, unmistakable sound of a hand on a cock moving frantically beneath a bundle of blankets.

At least he was trying to keep it private. Somewhat. Geralt supposed it could have been worse. He could have been lying nude on his bedroll instead, pleasuring himself unabashedly under the stars, half his body painted with the warm, dying firelight and the rest cast in alluring shadow. Geralt was pretty sure Jaskier was right-handed, and that was the side that would be illuminated if he uncovered himself, light washing over the back of his forearm and his knuckles and maybe a few slivers of skin that more rarely saw the light of day. The rest Geralt could pretend not to see, but he wouldn’t have to pretend not to see anything, because he was already pretending to be asleep, and Jaskier was at least kind enough to remain covered—

The blankets rustled. A soft gust of wind against Geralt’s back told him that at least one blanket had been cast off, and Jaskier gasping into the night air told him the rest of (and really, far more than) what he needed to know.

Geralt groaned into the rolled-up blanket that he’d fashioned into a pillow, already grieving for his lost hours of sleep, and somehow managed to be surprised when Jaskier answered him with a louder sound of his own, expressing a sentiment far different than Geralt’s exasperation.

“Oh, my thoughts exactly,” Jaskier replied breathlessly, as though they’d been having a lovely conversation all along.

Geralt exhaled with such frustration that it exited his throat as something approximating a growl, and in the next few moments he heard Jaskier’s breath hitch and his hand speed up and the sound of—ugh. At least Jaskier would quiet down now, and although he knew that many scent-dependent creatures would probably stay clear of the area for another day or two before creeping back in to reclaim their territory, Geralt planned on being far from this desecrated site in the morning.

He listened for more rustling blankets, hoping that his traveling companion would settle down for bed at last, but all he heard was a satisfied, gusty sigh from the other side of the fire.

“Well, that was quite good, wasn’t it? ...Geralt? Are you asleep already? Hm. Good for you.”

Geralt did not respond because he was certain that Jaskier could not possibly be trying to make conversation with him over an orgasm, and he was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was the only one here who was happily getting off to anything. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d touched himself for any reason other than pissing and quick, perfunctory washing. It was before this adventure that he’d been able to do anything as carefree and enjoyable as that, he was sure, but most of his nights in the city had blurred together toward the end, and he had more important things to worry about now that they were in the wilderness..

_No_ , he thought as Jaskier finally adjusted his blankets and settled into anticipatory silence, _I’m not asleep and there was nothing good about any of it. I suspect I may now be entirely incapable of deriving any sort of pleasure from this journey at all._

He listened to Jaskier breathe for a long while, first as his respiration slowed to normal and then slowed further to a slumberous pace, and buried his face in his pillow at last when the first light of dawn began to claw its way through the tree trunks.

Even on horseback, they traveled at a snail’s pace.

At Jaskier’s estimate they were still nearly a week from the nearest tiny village; still smarting from a run-in with a pair of Scoia’tael rangers who had managed to take Jaskier by surprise with his pants down behind a tree and had given Geralt somewhat more trouble than expected, the pair had decided to set up camp on a gentle slope at the northeasternmost base of the smallest peak of the Kestrel mountain range; they had followed the Lutonski road for some time and after accidentally discovering an abandoned campsite with a canvas tent still erected near a long-extinguished fire pit earlier in the afternoon, Geralt and Jaskier now had a canvas lean-to with which to protect themselves from an unexpected rainfall, a boon which Jaskier of course had appropriated for himself immediately and now sat beneath, basking in the heat from a small campfire that was, at least in this area of the woods, more of a summer hazard than anything else. 

At least the weather remained favourable. The leaves that had dappled the light from the sun now blocked out the stars overhead. A warm breeze rustled the leaves on occasion, and distant howls could be heard echoing through the hills, likely from wolves too far away to be of any concern. The most horrifying creature Geralt had come across today was himself, and it was little wonder why. No man needed rescuing more than one who had been caught with his pants around his ankles, and Jaskier was a better target for ambush than most. He was lucky to still be around.

“And I think we’ve earned a room—two rooms, one for each of us,” Jaskier was saying of their looming arrival at Rosepost, their current destination on their roundabout journey northward. He took a pensive sip from his flask, which had nothing more interesting in it than snow runoff from the mountains. “You’ve got enough coin for a room and a meal, haven’t you? Of course you do. You haven’t spent a crown since we left Oxenfurt.”

“I haven’t earned any, either,” Geralt grunted. He’d found a suitable log to sit on and was currently in the process of spit-roasting a small wild turkey that Jaskier had unhelpfully chased in circles for nearly half an hour before screeching for Geralt’s aid. He was beginning to think that he should have roasted the bard instead of the bird, but the turkey was plumper and Jaskier’s feathers were more easily ruffled than plucked. “Can’t spend what I don’t have.”

“Those Scoia’tael left us some,” Jaskier pointed out. “But luckily for us, I have some to spare. I don’t know that I’ve told you this, but I keep a few coins extra in my boot, you know.”

“Strange. I thought we’ve been stopping every hour because the Balisse disagreed with your bowels.”

“Oh, that’s funny,” Jaskier said, unbothered by the jab. “It’s sewn into the lining, not rattling about freely on the bottom. Clever, right? Surely _you_ could detect the musical jingle when I walk, with your keen eyes and ears. It plays on the unconscious, you know. With even the subtlest noise, people know upon meeting me that I’m a respectable man without even realizing why, and they’re more likely to assume that I’m as well-to-do as any average world-renowned legend that passes through their fine establishments. And,” he added, tilting his head coyly, “if you ask me, I think walking with all that extra weight has made my legs stronger. Maybe even stronger than yours.”

There were more things Geralt wished to question about that statement than things he believed, but asking after any of them would likely lead down some rabbit hole of boastfulness and hyperbole, and he was not in the mood for any of it.

“Okay,” Geralt agreed. He gave the turkey an unenthusiastic quarter-turn and watched the fat sizzle on its browning skin and drip into the flames. He was hungry, tired of being on the road for so long, and desperately missed the taste of alcohol. If only the campsite had been more generous to them both. “Tell me about the brothels we’ll find in Rosepost.”

“Oh, we’ll easily be able to find a companion for each of us easily,” Jaskier said without hesitation, as though he’d been waiting for Geralt to ask him that very question. “Of course, we won’t have to pay anything for them, as my stories and anecdotes will convince them so thoroughly of our good deeds and adventures that they’ll offer their services for free in exchange for more. Depending on the size of the town, we may have more company than we’ll know what to do with. But I’ll leave one for you,” he promised.

Geralt had never heard of Rosepost. He was beginning to doubt that Jaskier really knew what settlements lay this far north, outside of the capital cities.

“I’m surprised you’ve managed to hold out this long,” Geralt said. “I thought you would have stayed on the coast. Visited your _alma mater_.”

Jaskier nodded and drank from his flask. “Thank you,” he said wistfully. “I do hate to leave behind the harbour and the students, so… young and full of enthusiasm, unmarred by the hardships of life. This is always the worst part of the journey, you know. The nights before a soft bed and a warm body, knowing that the joys of good food and drink and good...” He sighed dreamily and left the sentence unfinished. “Ah. All so close at hand, yet so distant... but luckily for us, we’ve got each other.”

He winked. Geralt didn’t know what for. He’d missed the point entirely. Then again, he usually did.

Geralt returned his gaze to the turkey. “So is this the longest you’ve gone without... companionship?”

“Pf, what? Hardly. I could go weeks without. Months, if I had to, though you already know what that does to a man’s... systems.”

“No, I don’t,” Geralt said. He glanced up and caught Jaskier’s eye and silently delighted in how quickly Jaskier’s face changed. “Why don’t you elaborate for me?”

“Well, it’s like... like clearing one’s bowels,” Jaskier said with all the confidence of an Oxenfurt professor. “It’s only biological. Has to happen regularly or else things get backed up. You know how it is.”

Geralt pretended to be interested. He was more interested in how the bird was crisping over the flames, but he found that Jaskier’s improvisation had gotten better over time, and sometimes he was funnier than he was infuriating. “Then what happens?”

“Then—oh, I don’t know, why are you asking me? I’m not a doctor. I don’t know how the human reproductive system works, only that you need to flush out the excess—“

“Is that what you’ve been doing at night? Flushing out the excess?”

“I—I—what? Of course not,” Jaskier sputtered, then changed directions immediately. “ _You’ve_ been doing it while I’m asleep, haven’t you? Geralt, don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to. You think I can’t tell what you’re doing in the dark? Can’t hear your—your moaning and groaning in the throes of passion?”

“I think you’ve mistaken my patience for passion,” Geralt said, turning the turkey slowly again. Fat popped and hissed atop the coals, and Geralt was reminded once more of how hungry he really was. Maybe he was lucky to have Jaskier here after all. He probably wouldn’t have bothered chasing the thing if Jaskier hadn’t insisted on it. “You might be surprised to learn that what you interpret as moaning and groaning is simply my nightly suffering while you lie there and—”

He made a brief gesture with one hand and watched Jaskier’s mouth form a perfect, indignant O.

“Why, I—I would _never_ ,” he sputtered. “Here? In the woods? You think _I’m_...?”

“Men... _human_ men... have a very distinctive scent... in the throes of passion.” Geralt straightened raised his gaze from the cooking meat, locked eyes with Jaskier over the fire, and spread his thighs ever so slightly. “Should I count the times I’ve smelled you on our journey? Should I tell you how many times you’ve kept me awake with your... performances?”

Jaskier’s face then performed an entire emotional journey of its own, beginning with indignation and detouring through ire before finally settling into resignation. It was the best performance Geralt had ever seen from him, and he didn’t even have to utter a single word.

“No,” Jaskier said after a moment with a bit less bravado. He fixed his eyes on the turkey and seemed to stare straight through it. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“It was every night,” Geralt offered.

“I said maybe you _shouldn’t_ tell me, Geralt, what part of ‘maybe’ or ‘shouldn’t’—okay, I get it. Ridicule the lonely man, that’s a good joke, isn’t it? Laugh at a man for thinking it would be nice to enjoy some friendly side-by-side—what, what are you smiling about over there? Ugh, I can’t sit here and listen to you anymore. I’ll be over here if you need me.”

He was already on his feet, swearing and shuffling his way into the woods. Geralt watched him go, gave the turkey another quarter-turn, and watched the fat drip into the fire once more. The meat was wonderfully fragrant. Every predator within a mile would be able to smell it, and some might even be brave enough to come looking, skulking about with gleaming eyes and dripping teeth.

They were all hungry, here in the wood. Every living creature possessed an appetite of his own; the wolves singing in the valley, Jaskier thrashing pointedly in the underbrush, and even Geralt. Friendly jabs aside, he understood Jaskier, some nights. Travel was lonely for some, and all living creatures sought the same thing.

All sought the same thing.

Jaskier sulked less after eating. A full belly was enough to lessen any affront, and it improved Geralt’s mood somewhat, too, though it would have been further improved with something alcoholic. He didn’t even mind when Jaskier pulled out his lute and plucked at it, pretending to tune the strings that sounded perfectly fine and playing a few chords that he’d been improvising through the entirety of their journey. Whatever his song was tonight, he kept it either low under his breath or in his head, but he discovered a halfway tolerable melody and played it for a few minutes before eventually calling an early evening; with little more than a quiet _goodnight_ , he spread out his blankets and turned his back on Geralt and the fire and cast a long, dark shadow that reached up the sloped terrain and melded with the shadow of the mountain.

But he didn’t sleep.

Neither did Geralt.

Some time later, Geralt turned onto his side and gazed across the few feet that separated them. Jaskier’s head wasn’t even visible beneath his blankets, though the air wasn’t cool enough to really warrant the cover. The fire had died down, and crickets played a symphony around them, but Geralt continued to listen to Jaskier, perhaps more out of concern than he would initially admit; Jaskier breathed softly, slowly, but his breaths were too measured. He would have easily convinced any passing traveler that he was sound asleep, only he’d chosen to travel with the one man who could tell whether he was sleeping from several yards away.

Geralt closed his eyes. He was full, tired enough that sleep should have come easily, and was more or less satisfied that Jaskier hadn’t done something foolish out of sheer pettiness, but still a loudness of the mind kept him awake. He took a deep, slow breath, and tried to meditate on the world around him. Fire. Meat. Smoke. Jaskier, but not the scent that Geralt had learned to expect over the past weeks. There was usually a lead-up to it: a conspicuous shuffling of fabrics, a quick glance to make sure that Geralt was asleep ( _or,_ he thought, recalling Jaskier’s defensive blathering, _waiting for some side-by-side fun to begin_ ), a careful angling of the body away from the dying firelight... and more signs, some things that the average human would not be able to identify, but even the early markers were thus far undetectable. Jaskier hadn’t moved in well over an hour, save to adjust his position occasionally on the hard ground, but if it was an elaborate ruse to mask his intentions (more secretive masturbation, Geralt imagined), it was working. There was no hint of that distinctive musk in the air, no visible shifting of his blankets. Maybe tonight he would take a break.

Geralt wondered idly whether it was bothering Jaskier to hold back. It wasn’t as if he had done it every single night since they left the harbour, but he knew the man well enough now to recognize that he did miss certain comforts, and even travel on horseback certainly didn’t come without its own particular set of obstacles and stresses. Geralt and Jaskier had their own outlets for that sort of thing, but even Geralt could admit that nothing eased the mind and spent the body better than a good orgasm. Or fight. Or both. And he could fight with Jaskier, oh, yes he could.

He inhaled slowly and rested his hand on the ground near his leg, suddenly too conscious of how he’d lost himself in thought. He’d lain awake too many nights listening to that fool spend himself, trying to rationalize Jaskier’s behaviour and ignoring it when rationalizing felt like too complicated and futile a task, but it was possible that all the talk of food and drink and a warm bed with a warm partner was starting to get to him. If Jaskier wished to indulge himself tonight, he could do so under the perfect set of conditions. Warm air, a full belly, and best of all he no longer had to pretend that Geralt wasn’t listening. Geralt had no need to pretend he didn’t hear it. _Really,_ Geralt thought, _he could just do it now, get it over with, and wake well-rested and chipper in the morning._

And then Geralt thought, _why fixate on what Jaskier’s hands are doing when I have two of my own?_

He lifted his hand and rested it on his thigh and wondered, not for the first time, what inspired Jaskier’s perpetually filthy thoughts. What exactly _did_ he think about? Former lovers? Forbidden fantasies? The same swooning maidens and heroic travelers he spoke of in his songs?

Himself?

Geralt snorted. No, Jaskier was narcissistic, but even he wasn’t that self-absorbed. He probably got hard thinking about nude, slick women and bags of coin to toss at them. He was normally so dreamy in his conversation, so absent-minded, prone to quick subject change; likely it translated to his sexual fantasies, too, and he just thought about any old thing that came to his mind, probably touching himself first through those billowing circus tents he called trousers and then reaching into them. Something always made him hiss with pleasure, Geralt knew. The first skin-on-skin contact, maybe. The first dry stroke of his cock in his hand, and if he couldn’t reach full hardness before then, it probably didn’t take him long after that. 

Geralt could usually begin to smell him after that. He was certain it was the fluid that he detected, with a faint but unmistakable aroma. That, and the quick, wet sounds that even Jaskier’s blankets could never muffle, and then his breathy whispers, his useless attempts at keeping quiet—

Geralt placed a hand over himself and exhaled sharply. Maybe this was what Jaskier thought of: his travel companion lying only a few feet away, desperately hard beneath his clothing, his cock aching and begging for the open air and a warm hand.

Seeing Geralt in this condition would please him to no end, undoubtedly.

It was difficult to suppress a groan as Geralt groped himself. He was uncovered, warm enough only in his traveling clothes, and had Jaskier turned his head at that precise moment it would have been more than obvious what Geralt’s hand was doing; he ground a palm against himself and silently cursed the material for being so good at its job, muting the texture of his hand and the precise grip of his fingers. He could feel the outline of his cock through his pants, could almost get his fingers partway around himself if he was careful, but it wasn’t good enough to squeeze his balls and cock with the pressure dispersed by his clothing. He’d need to free himself.

_Bad idea_ , part of Geralt’s mind said. 

_No_ , fantastic _idea_ , another part of Geralt’s mind argued. _You’ve already gone this far. And this was what Jaskier wanted, anyway. It can’t hurt._

He unbuttoned his pants with one hand and slid his fingers inside without removing his eyes from Jaskier’s back.

_Ridiculous._

Geralt exhaled again, quite forcefully this time, and wrapped his fingers around his cock and withdrew it.

_Is this what you want?_ he wondered. The only scent that hung in the air was his own, but it didn’t stop him from picturing Jaskier lying there, growing helplessly aroused with Geralt’s gaze burning into his back, squirming with discomfort in an attempt to resist giving into temptation even after being called out on it. Geralt stroked himself, and he imagined Jaskier doing the same as the embers from the fire disintegrated into ash and the last of the smoke curled up into the canopy of leaves and dispersed in the air, leaving only the scent of his arousal, and the slow, creeping scent of Jaskier’s. 

The mound of blankets began to shift slowly, then faster. Jaskier never turned over or looked back, but Geralt listened to the quickened sound of his breath and felt no small amount of satisfaction when he finally came with a rumbling groan, covering his hand and some of the nearby grass and dirt.

Jaskier followed soon after, quiet but not entirely silent. As his respiration began to slow, Geralt heard him take a breath, as though to say something, but he never spoke; they fell asleep together in silence, and although in the morning neither spoke of the, Geralt found the trip a fraction more tolerable than before. 

No animals would approach that site for days after, not even for the lingering scent of roast meat.

“What do you mean, there’s no brothel in Rosepost?”

“I mean there’s no bloody brothel here in _Rotpost_ ,” the innkeeper repeated, emphasizing the optimistic and obviously incorrect changes Jaskier had made to the settlement’s name. “I can offer you and your friend a room each. You can get yourself some hot food and something to drink, but I can’t offer you silk sheets or any of that poncy shit.”

The last of his sentence was muttered low enough that Jaskier may not have heard it, but Geralt was listening across the room; he sat with his hood up and a plate of mashed potato in front of him and could only stand to listen to Jaskier’s desperate haggling for so long, but he couldn’t tune him out entirely as it was very likely that Jaskier would offend someone and earn a swift kick in the ass on his way out the door, which would simply make him more miserable to travel with, stress relief be damned. 

Jaskier returned to the table with a huff, removing his lute from his back before plopping into his seat with a weary sigh.

“No friendly welcome, no premium rooms or services, no friendly companions—and, oh, perfect, no salt in the potatoes, either,” he said after sticking his index finger into Geralt’s plate and sucking it clean. 

Geralt stared at him, and Jaskier rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Okay, fine. We’ll spend the night here and move on to our next destination. Which, if I’m not mistaken, is at least likely to have better options for—”

“I’ll find you someone,” Geralt said quietly.

Jaskier’s finger was aimed at Geralt’s potatoes again. “You’ll what?”

“Find you someone. For tonight. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Well—yes, but—I’m fine, you know, really, I don’t need company here, not in a dingy little establishment like this, what sort of person do you think I am?”

Geralt gave him his most pointed stare from underneath his hood, and Jaskier missed or ignored it entirely, now complaining about the unverified quality of the bedding and the smell of manure that pervaded the small mountainside settlement (which was sweet grass, in fact; any foul smell in this inn was likely emanating from them, having been on the road for weeks, and the village itself was quite charming, if a bit out of the way). Eventually he stopped talking and deflated with a sigh, glancing furtively around the tiny inn. Fewer than a dozen people populated the room now, though it was mid-afternoon and some of the locals would likely be seeking a warm supper just as they had when the sun began to sink. Maybe Jaskier could cheer up the crowd and stir some interest with his sharp wit and clever tongue when the place picked up. _A place with a name like Rotpost could probably use some cheering up_ , Geralt thought.

“You know, you’re absolutely right,” Jaskier said once this thought had been relayed to him. He patted Geralt’s hand absent-mindedly and leaned over to inspect the protective case that housed his lute. “I’m glad someone here cares genuinely about my well-being. No, you’re right, this village is too small for us. No sense in wasting our money here. I never thought I’d say this, Geralt, but I’m actually looking forward to leaving immediately. After a nice bath, of course. And a good night’s sleep.”

Geralt waited for elaboration, or a longer list of things that Jaskier required before setting off once more, but Jaskier seemed to have fallen into a contemplative silence, distracted again by something Geralt could neither see nor hear and suspected strongly was in Jaskier’s own mind. 

He nodded, agreeing to at least part of Jaskier’s decisive statement, and ate his potatoes quietly.

It was nighttime in Rotpost when Geralt knocked on Jaskier’s door.

Over the din of the bustling inn, above the clatter of men making merry and relaxing at the end of a long day and still laughing at the prissy bard who had demanded their money after what had been, all things considered, not a halfway terrible performance, Geralt heard a shuffling inside the room and a mild curse or two before the door swung open. Jaskier stood there with a goblet of what smelled like wine in his hand, his shoulders backlit by a few low-burning candles and his face carrying an expression that suggested he had expected anyone but Geralt to be standing there. He’d changed out of his earlier garb, which had been a gaudy troubadour’s outfit with as many ruffles as colours, and now looked downright depressing in a simpler dark shirt.

“Geralt,” he said, then tried to peek around Geralt’s shoulder. “I thought you said you were...”

“Bringing company? I am.” Geralt stepped inside and unbuckled the sheath that kept his sword safely attached to his back. Jaskier stuck his head out the door, cast a suspicious glance around the room, and shut it again.

“Well, that’s... that’s very kind of you.” 

There was little space in the room to sit down, so Jaskier sat on the bed instead, setting his wine aside on the tiny table with its single drawer that Geralt assumed was supposed to pass for furniture. The rooms were quite tiny, old-looking, neither particularly clean nor lavishly furnished–—in short, far from what Jaskier had been hoping for, but it would suffice until they found themselves in a larger city. Away from the mountains, a more urban township would guarantee him the opportunity for a good time, but it was a bit of a disappointment to see Jaskier so sullen here in sweet-smelling Rotpost. Surely there was something that could be done to improve his mood, and the solution, once it had occurred to Geralt, had been wonderfully simple. 

“So what does she look like?” Jaskier had his hands on his thighs and watched Geralt with a polite but impatient curiosity. “Where did you find someone? Did they see my performance? Or did they approach you for company instead and you, kind and shy and, ah, chaste as you are, are simply foisting her off on... Geralt? Are you warm? Is it too hot in here?”

Geralt hadn’t stopped at his sword. His shirt was on the floor now too, but Jaskier was neither prudish around men nor unused to seeing Geralt in various states of undress, and his concern over a lack of company seemed greater than his concern over Geralt undressing in his room.

“I don’t think I understand,” Jaskier said. “Are you trying to show me that you took a bath without someone else washing you? Because if so, it looks like you did a very good job, but I—okay, I think I see your plan now. Take off your clothes and lure someone into the room. Excellent, I’m sure that will work... perfectly. Er. Geralt, they can’t get in if you...”

His sarcasm trailed off into nothingness as it became apparent that Geralt had returned to the door only to bolt it shut, and not to invite some passerby inside. He seemed more flustered by that gesture than Geralt’s unexplained nudity, but Jaskier rarely allowed others to ruffle his feathers for long. He even smiled as Geralt sat next to him on the mattress, which sagged at rest and sagged more under their combined weight, but there was some uncertainty in his voice as he looked sideways and sighed, the very picture of surrender. “Am I missing something?”

“I’m the company,” Geralt said.

“Oh Oh!.” Jaskier’s face lit up instantly. His eyes flickered with utter delight and mischief, but it may have just been the candles. “Oh, of course. Yes, well, I’ve got plenty of space in here for two, and blankets, I know how much you love to lounge partially-covered in those, and, uh—I can’t do magic, or parlour tricks—eh, I’ve got _some_ , more than most men, I would think, maybe even more than you, not to brag, but probably not more than the average prostitute, not that I’ve learned my tricks from any.”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

Jaskier scrunched up his nose and lifted one shoulder in the universal gesture for _eh, yeah, maybe just a little_ and said, “I’ve gotten myself into worse.”

“Scenarios?”

“People.” Jaskier grinned, then did something extremely uncharacteristic: he punched Geralt in the shoulder, and upon seeing the look on Geralt’s face when it turned slowly toward him he positively radiated the strange hormonal scent that Geralt knew meant adrenaline and testosterone were about to mix in a spectacular way. “I knew you couldn’t resist me, you rascal. People rarely can. But you managed to hold out for quite a long time. You know, I like that about you. About us! A romance kindled and burning slow, like a–a candle sheltered from the wind, standing the test of time and persisting over—“

“Jaskier.”

Geralt had lowered his voice, and Jaskier stared at him, utterly rapt, the shadow of his stiffening self growing in his lap in the candlelight. Up close, freshly bathed and free of the scent of blood and dirt and days’ worth of sweat, he smelled… well, maybe it was the sweetgrass.

“Yes,” Jaskier half-whispered.

Geralt leaned in and inhaled slowly, close to the join of his head and neck. He could see Jaskier’s pulse thrumming beneath his skin. He wondered how many places Jaskier could see his. Jaskier was more than familiar with certain aspects of his body, and if there was any tragedy here in Rotpost, it was that Geralt still hadn’t familiarized himself with Jaskier’s yet.

“Is that perfume?”

“In my defence”—Jaskier swallowed as Geralt dipped his head and let his nose brush against the soft skin beneath Jaskier’s ear—“I thought I was trying to appeal to someone with different tastes.”

“Mmm.”

Jaskier all but shuddered as Geralt’s lips pressed against his skin. Arousal emanated from him in powerful waves, almost enough to drown out the perfume, and Geralt felt him gasp quietly as he placed careful, open-mouthed kisses down the side of his throat. Jaskier’s hand curled suddenly over one of his thighs, just a bit higher up than he would normally place his hand in casual conversation, as his friendly demeanor often led him to do. 

The scrape of Geralt’s stubble made a small moan die in Jaskier’s throat.

“Don’t go quiet on me now,” Geralt murmured.

Jaskier had claimed not to have any magical capabilities, but those few words seemed to grant him some preternatural talents, magical or not; his clothing had disappeared in the blink of an eye and Geralt was between his legs without really knowing how he got there, and as Geralt rocked himself against Jaskier’s hips and tightened his grip on one lean thigh, he swallowed the sound that had risen from Jaskier’s throat, tasted the wine on his tongue, and pressed him harder into the bed, which to Geralt’s eventual surprise would be the only thing that complained all night.

Geralt was not, however, surprised by the string-callused tips of Jaskier’s fingers, nor his proficiency with them, nor his knack for finding parts of Geralt to touch that made him reveal a more colourful vocabulary; Jaskier had tenderly and professionally seen to many of Geralt’s wounds in the past, but he’d never closed his hand around Geralt’s cock or gripped his ass or mapped Geralt’s scars with his mouth, and Geralt had never collapsed atop Jaskier’s chest, thighs trembling and breath hot against his mouth, their kisses hungry, then lazy, then sweet.

The candles burned low, and then burned out entirely. Jaskier was a performer and prone to boasting, that much was apparent, but he hadn’t been exaggerating before. His legs were surprisingly strong. 

“How did you know to do that?” Geralt asked after the room had grown quiet. He’d stopped trying to keep his eyes open, and relied instead on the muscle of Jaskier’s body to guide the lazy paths that his fingers drew.

Jaskier laughed a little. The sound was exhausted but bright, and a little more than smug.

“Did you think I was looking away while I slathered your arse with those weird dryad healing oils? Good god. You may think you’re stoic and silent, Geralt, but when your asshole looks a man in the eye it says a great deal more than your mouth does.”

It took everything Geralt had left in him not to laugh loud enough to wake the rest of the inn's slumbering patrons.


End file.
